Sherlock: Addicted II
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: In his younger years, Mycroft Holmes was an addict. Twenty years later he's found high in his flat. This is the Mycroft side of my story, 'Sherlock: Addicted'. The same plot but it focuses on Mycroft and his past. Rated M for m/m sex, drug use, swearing. ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. Brilliant

SHERLOCK

ADDICTED II

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><p><em><strong>In his younger years, Mycroft Holmes was an addict. Twenty years later he's found high in his flat. This is the Mycroft side of my story, 'Sherlock: Addicted'. The same plot but it focuses on Mycroft and his past. Rated M for mm sex, drug use, swearing.**_

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_**Pairing(s): Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John**_

_**About: There's not need to read 'Sherlock: Addicted' to understand this story but it can't hurt. This is basically the same story (it has the same ending) but it focuses on Mycroft's early years and how he felt about everything.**_

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><p><em><strong>Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.<strong>_

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Brilliant<strong>

Mycroft Holmes refused to think about _why _he was mixing cocaine into a 7% solution. He also refused to think about the fact that he and Sherlock took cocaine the same way. He absolutely refused to admit that he was feeling scared and vulnerable and so many other things that he felt like there a giant fucking hole in his heart.

And he would not, _could not_, think about how fucking brilliant it would be to shut his brain up.

It wasn't that Mycroft wasn't used to feeling angry and annoyed and scared and... vulnerable. Mycroft would always admit, if only to himself, that most nights he felt completely vulnerable. When he was stuck in his big flat alone, staring at the walls and downing expensive scotch, he admitted that he felt very, very vulnerable.

But mostly he refused to think about the _why_. Why he felt these things was so much darker and more dangerous than getting drunk and not eating. Why he felt so angry and scared was so much more hurtful then injecting his veins with cocaine.

The reason made Mycroft want to scream and thump his head against the wall. His brain... his brain never shutting up, never slowing down to let Mycroft just _be_. It always brought back memories, memories of loving arms and soft lips and–

Oh God, it was brilliant when his mind just _shut up_.

Mycroft dropped the bottle of solution and it rolled across his expensive coffee table. His hands were shaking, fingers twitching from the emotions running through his veins. Mycroft stared at the bottle, at the table and the syringe and...

He was reminded of another coffee table, an old wooden one with cracks and stains. A coffee table that had always been covered in magazines and VHS's and drugs...

A coffee table associated with nights curled up against a warm body, a loving body–

SHUT UP!

The politician swallowed and leaned back. He'd been clean two years. Two whole years and he hadn't injected once. He still had scars; track marks that had failed to completely fade away over the years. But his pale skin was clean...

Mycroft shuddered as he closed his eyes, emotions assaulting him. He didn't want to think about why he was doing this... he didn't want to think about why he was alone, in his flat, with a bag of drugs, an aching heart, and memories of much happier times.

The drugs... the drugs...

The drugs were much easier to think about then _him_.

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><p><em>Mycroft Holmes didn't want to be brilliant. He didn't want to be able to tell a person's life story from a three-second glance. He didn't want to be able to master five languages before his twelfth birthday. He didn't want to be able to outsmart his father by the time he was fifteen. He did <em>not _want to be spoken about by his parents at every goddamn function._

_Mycroft just wanted to be... Mycroft. He wanted to be himself. He wanted to be able to sit in his room and read. He wanted to date who he wanted, to do what he wanted with his life. Father wanted him to go into politics and Mummy wanted him to keep Father proud. Sherlock... Sherlock didn't give a damn what Mycroft did._

_The elder Holmes hadn't always felt like that; he hadn't always felt... _different. _At home his abilities weren't pointed out and mocked. Yes, he had to put up with Mummy's gushing about how brilliant he was. And yes, he had to put up with Father dragging him into the study and laying out complicated plans. And then there was Sherlock, who tried to out-deduce his brother every ten goddamn minutes and screamed when he failed._

_But at home Mycroft wasn't ridiculed, or laughed at, or... or smacked. At school, and later university, Mycroft was sneered at. The other kids knew he was different; knew he was dangerously brilliant. They didn't like it._

_They expressed this with sharp words and sneers. They glared at him and muttered when he passed. Some... some pushed him into lockers and broke his ribs. Some scuffed up his face and stole his things. Even at university Mycroft was taunted, abused, completely ostracised because of what he could do._

_Mycroft was slowly falling apart in his final year. Slowly the cracks were beginning to deepen and the cool, calm facade he put up was crumbling away. He couldn't take it anymore; the demands, the abuse, Sherlock and his goddamn problems. Mycroft just couldn't handle the stress..._

_... and then there was that party when he was eighteen..._

_-oOo-_

_It was a party his parents had thrown for the university. Well, it was a charity party that his parents were hosting. All his university classmates were there and all sneered every time Mycroft Holmes walked past._

_He tried to ignore them but by nine he was coming undone. He loosened his tie as he escaped outside into the cool, dark night. He sighed in relief and rounded the house, hands stuffed into his trousers pockets. Oh, what Mummy would say about his poor posture._

_Mycroft reached the gazebo, his favourite spot at Holmes manor. He could just sit there and try to ignore his brain; he could forget about Mummy's incessant nag that he get a lovely young girlfriend. He could hide from Father and one of the man's never ending plans. And Sherlock? Sherlock hated the gazebo, Mycroft could always avoid his brother by sitting in it._

_Tonight, however, Mycroft found that the gazebo was already occupied. The boy was no older than Mycroft and stunningly beautiful; golden curls, bright blue eyes, muscular body and tanned skin. He was everything Mycroft wasn't; he was everything Mycroft wanted to be._

_The boy turned and saw Mycroft, the older Holmes resigning himself to another, 'Oh, it's _you_.' Instead the boy grinned and said, 'Hello.'_

_Mycroft paused, unsure he'd heard him correctly. Surely the boy wasn't talking to _him_._

'_What's the matter?' the boy asked._

'_Erm...' Mycroft Holmes did _not _say _erm_. Which just proved how completely out of his depth he was talking to anybody who was even mildly polite to him._

'_What's the matter?' the boy repeated._

'_N-nothing,' Mycroft mumbled. Really he wanted to turn around and walk away but it was _his _gazebo. The boy had no right to be there. So, steeling himself, Mycroft climbed the steps and approached the boy carefully._

_The blonde just smiled and turned back to lean against the railing, sniffing and looking up at the sky. 'Nice night,' he commented to which Mycroft had no reply. 'Better than that party.'_

_Mycroft glanced at him. 'You don't like parties?'_

_The blonde boy shrugged. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'honestly I just like hanging out in a quiet room with a book, maybe a few mates; nothing too theatrical.'_

_Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, my parents do like to be dramatic.' He bit his tongue when the boy looked at him. Mycroft had been thinking that perhaps the other boy didn't know who he was; maybe he didn't know that he was Mycroft Holmes; loser, geek, faggot... Mycroft had long ago stopped caring what other people called him._

'_Oh, so you're the Holmes kid?'_

'_Yes,' Mycroft said._

'_Cool,' the boy said and ran a finger under his nose. 'I heard you were a genius.'_

_Mycroft blinked. 'What?'_

_The boy smiled. 'I'm Rupert.'_

'_Mycroft,' the elder Holmes replied automatically._

'_Duh,' Rupert rolled his eyes, 'I know.'_

'_Yes... of course.'_

_They fell into silence once more, each boy staring up at the sky. A cool wind had picked up and Mycroft sighed in content as his hair blew across his forehead, ruining the perfect hairstyle Mummy had forced upon his ginger-brown waves._

'_Did you find the party boring too?' Rupert sniffed._

'_Yes,' Mycroft said honestly. 'I really don't enjoy them. Too...'_

'_Stuffy?' Rupert supplied and Mycroft nodded._

'_Yes. And I don't exactly get along with my classmates.' He paused to look at Rupert carefully. 'Do we go to school together?'_

'_Yeah; English Lit and Shakespeare,' Rupert said, again running a long index finger under his long nose. 'I've seen you 'round but you mostly sit up the back.'_

'_Well, the back is the easiest way to avoid detection.'_

_Rupert smiled. 'Cool.'_

_Nobody had ever used the word _cool _in reply to anything Mycroft said. He paused again, running his eyes up and down Rupert carefully. The boy was very fascinating; obviously good-looking so probably popular, went to the same university as Mycroft... so why was he standing outside, in a gazebo, talking to Mycroft Holmes?_

_Rupert sniffed again and Mycroft looked at his face. In the soft glow of the lights from the gazebo, Mycroft could see that Rupert's pupils were dilated. His cheeks were flushed, his hands twitching, and his nose running._

'_You're high,' Mycroft stated suddenly._

_Rupert turned to give him a lopsided grin. 'Wow, you really are a genius, huh?'_

_Mycroft flushed. 'Well, it's a simple process, really. You just look at the small details, add them altogether, and come to a conclusion. Honestly, I don't know why everybody makes such a fuss.'_

_Rupert just flashed Mycroft a white-toothed smile. 'Cool.'_

'_Erm...' Okay, two _erms _in less than ten minutes. Mycroft really didn't know what was wrong with him._

'_It's coke,' Rupert said, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a tin. 'Makes life fun, ya know?'_

'_No,' Mycroft said honestly. Life was not _fun_. Life was a chore; it was a boring series of events that Mycroft was pulled through._

'_You never have fun?'_

'_When I am allowed to read or be alone, yes, I have fun.'_

_Rupert smiled. 'Coke makes everything better,' he said. 'Shuts your brain up.'_

_Now _that _made Mycroft pause. He processed Rupert's words quickly before saying, 'It does?'_

'_Yeah,' Rupert nodded. 'Like, you know how sometimes your brain just gets all annoying and won't shut up? About school and family and relationships and all that shit?' Mycroft nodded. 'Well coke shuts that all up. It just let's ya... enjoy the now, ya know?'_

_Mycroft really didn't know but he was getting awfully curious._

'_I take it you've never tried coke,' Rupert said._

'_No, of course not.'_

'_Why 'of course not'?' Rupert asked, turning to face Mycroft completely._

'_I do not do drugs,' Mycroft said firmly._

'_Don't knock 'em till ya try 'em,' Rupert said. Mycroft's eyes slid to the tin as Rupert popped it open. Inside was a dusting of white powder along with a well-used straw. Rupert picked the straw up and stuffed it into his nose to snort the powder._

_Mycroft watched in wide-eyed fascination as Rupert snorted back, tipping his head and staring at the sky._

'_Brilliant!' he shouted, words filled with joy and happiness. He looked back at Mycroft, his grin now ten-times more brilliant than before. 'Wanna try?'_

'_Erm... n-no, I don't think so,' Mycroft said._

'_It's good,' Rupert said. 'I won't force ya or nothing but trust me; shuts ya fucking head up.'_

_Mycroft giggled; he never swore himself and found it funny when others his age did._

_Rupert seemed all smiles that night as he stepped forward, his body heat assaulting Mycroft. The elder Holmes swallowed and looked down._

'_It's good,' Rupert repeated. 'Believe me.'_

_Mycroft did. He knew, of course, why drugs made the world seem better, why people took them and got addicted. He had never believed that he'd ever be faced with the possibility of trying any type of illegal drug. It wasn't as though he were invited to late-night parties back on campus._

_But right then and there, standing in that gazebo, Mycroft was suddenly faced with the choice._

'_Well?' Rupert asked._

My brain would shut up_, Mycroft thought. _No more worrying about Sherlock or Mummy or _anything_. I could just... be_._

_Really, that was all it took for Mycroft Holmes, genius, perfect son, and straight A student, to stick a straw up his nose and snort strange and possibly poisonous drugs. He just wanted a rest; he wanted to go five minutes without having to _think_. Five minutes would be a blessing._

_Rupert chuckled as Mycroft snorted, groaning as powder got stuck in his nose. Honestly, how did people do this all the time? Already he felt his nose dripping and sniffed again._

_Oh. Ooooh._

_Mycroft's brain was suddenly strangely and exhilaratingly quiet. He could focus on one thing and one thing only; how good it felt to not be thinking._

_It was the very best high Mycroft had ever felt. All his thoughts melded into one unifying line, easily handled once Mycroft focused on his nails, or a star, or the way Rupert's curls stuck to his forehead. Everything was so calm and beautiful and... oh, yes._

'_Good?' Rupert asked._

_Mycroft nodded, snorting again, brain keeping its goddamn thoughts silent for once in his short life._

'_Yes,' he said and grinned for what felt like the first time in history. 'Yes. It's... it's brilliant!'_

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note: Okay, so this is my first attempt at the Mycroft side of Addicted and it most likely completely and utterly sucks. I do apologise if I let anyone down but Mycroft is harder to write for than Greg.<strong>_

_**And yes, I named the boy who introduced Mycroft to drugs Rupert because I am currently in love with Rupert Graves :)**_

_**So yes, I expect many scathing reviews and I deserve them.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


	2. I Don't Care

**Chapter Two: I Don't Care**

Mycroft stared at the finished bottles, at the clear liquid inside. Beside the two bottles he'd made up was a packet of the white powder, the one syringe Mycroft had left over from his old supply and a leather case he used to use to carry the drugs around.

The case, like everything else Mycroft seemed to own that day, reminded the politician of better times. They reminded of him of days and nights spent in a drug haze with another body, a body that was warm and soft and could be hard when Mycroft rubbed the right way–

Mycroft blinked, pushed those thoughts aside. Being a genius had its advantages sometimes; Mycroft could prioritise his mind, could ignore anything too annoying and focus on forty other things.

He leaned back on the couch and let out a heavy breath. The drugs, the drugs, the bloody drugs. Mycroft had once spent so long hiding his drug addiction from the world; from work and friends and family. _Friends_... the men and women Mycroft had to socialise with to cement his position in the British Government. They weren't friends, not really. Mycroft had never had friends.

He still didn't have friends. Oh yes, he had people who he spoke to and parties he attended. But they all socialised with Mycroft because of his name, because he was Mycroft Holmes. He practically _was_ the British Government and they wanted to be on his good side; they wanted favours and his protection.

No one had ever voluntarily wanted to be with Mycroft. A few women in his late teens, Sherlock when they were little. No one... no one but _him_.

Mycroft groaned and rubbed his eyes before removing his jacket. He untucked his shirt but kept the sleeves down. He still hadn't broken yet. The drugs were there, begging to be injected, but maybe Mycroft was stronger; maybe he could resist them.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered if anyone would care if he fell again. Sherlock probably wouldn't... Mycroft's stomach twisted when he realised his brother was the only person who would care about his drug addiction. Oh yes, his superiors would be furious and lock him up in some rehabilitation unit somewhere.

But no one would actually care... Mycroft himself wouldn't either.

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><p><em>Mycroft only remembered a few things about his early years of drug addiction.<em>

_Injecting the drug was much easier, Mycroft learned that early on. Snorting the drug brought attention to his runny (sometimes bloody) nose and he couldn't hide that kind of thing from his brother. Sherlock was almost as observant as Mycroft himself and wouldn't buy that Mycroft had a cold. A little bit of research showed Mycroft that he could mix the cocaine and inject it._

_Mycroft could hide beneath long sleeved shirts and he didn't suffer a runny/blocked nose. He also liked the feel of the needle slipping into pale skin more than the feel of powder being stuffed up his nose. He liked the track marks injecting left behind; they were little reminders that, sometimes, Mycroft _could _be happy._

_Mycroft has almost been caught at least five times by various people. The first was his roommate at university. The other man had been close to finding the needles, had been searching for a CD and hunted for it under Mycroft's bed. Mycroft had done a poor job of hiding the drugs and syringes; had left them in a wooden chest under his bed. After that Mycroft had learned to carry a little case. He learned how to hide his addiction better._

_Sherlock always suspected... something. Sometimes he'd see his brother coming down, or close to coming down, and would remark on his sudden sullen mood. But he didn't ask, not until Mycroft was in hospital. After that it was a bit stupid to lie._

_Some of the best memories Mycroft has (one that doesn't involve _him_) is of going to class high. He remembers the first time well, it was good fun._

_Not looking forward to a long, boring lecture from a man who's intellect didn't even come close to Mycroft's, the teenager had shot up in the toilets outside the lecture hall._

_He buzzed through five minutes of the class, humming to himself and remarking (internally) that the wooden chairs were rather nice and cool. Before long the teacher's dull voice had pushed Mycroft to the edge and he sighed loudly._

_Professor Jax paused mid-lecture to glare up at Mycroft. He was sitting in an aisle seat, having realised after five steps that he could barely walk straight this strung out._

Hmm, a higher solution produces better effects_, Mycroft thought. _Interesting.

'_Something troubling you, Holmes?' Jax asked._

_Mycroft blinked and stared at the man, taking a few seconds too long to answer._

'_A lot of things bother me, Professor.'_

_Jax raised an eyebrow. 'Would you care to share with the class?' he asked._

_Mycroft smiled, his long, lean fingers dancing across his covered forearms. 'No, no I don't think I want to.' He paused, as though seriously considering whether or not he should tell the class what bothered him. 'No,' he finally repeated and went back to staring at the wall._

_Jax glared at him. 'Is something on the wall more interesting than my lecture, Holmes?' he asked in an irritated growl._

_Mycroft smirked, suddenly resembling his little brother. 'There are so many things more interesting than your "lecture",' Mycroft said, adding air quotes to the word _lecture_. 'Like the wall, or this chair, or a bout of influenza.'_

_Usually by now the class would be laughing at the sheer audacity of a student saying those things to a teacher. But this was Mycroft Holmes; usually the genius did little more than sit quietly and ace the class._

_This sudden outburst... the entire class was speechless._

'_Holmes–' Jax began, only to be cut off._

'_I mean, there are about a thousand things I could name off the top of my head that would be more interesting than this,' Mycroft said, grinning. His veins were alive with cocaine, his brain completely focused on humiliating Jax. His brain, his big beautiful brain, was finally easy to manage. 'You're just _so _dull,' Mycroft stated. 'It's why your wife is having an affair with your daughter's boyfriend.'_

_The class gasped._

'_Honestly, why would your wife want _you_?' Mycroft continued, ignoring the people staring at him and the fact that Professor Jax looked murderous. 'If you're this boring in a lecture you're probably even more horrid at home.'_

_The teenager stood suddenly, grabbing the one book he'd brought to class._

'_Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?' Jax demanded._

'_Is that a rhetorical question or do you actually want to know?' Mycroft asked. He was feeling stronger, happy, a little bit lazy. Forget class, forget his classmates, forget _everything. _This, the high, this was what made Mycroft happy. 'Will a sentence suffice or do you want a detailed itinerary?'_

_Jax looked like his head was about to explode. Hushed conversations had broken out, all eyes flicking between Mycroft and the teacher. The teenager really didn't care; he wanted to go, maybe sit in the shower and let the water pummel him. Showers were always wonderful while high._

_Mycroft began walking up the aisle, heading towards the door. Whispers followed his every step until Jax shouted, 'Get back here, Holmes!'_

_Mycroft turned at the door and shouted, 'Oh, would you shut the fuck up!'_

_And then he was gone, humming as he walked down the corridors._

_-oOo-_

_Mycroft's little outburst didn't go down well. He was called into the Dean's office, the man demanding to know why he had shouted at his teacher like that. Mycroft had just shrugged, even more cocaine buzzing through his system._

_He was told if he apologised he could continue his studies. Mycroft refused._

_Mycroft Holmes graduated university early and his father dragged him straight into politics._

_Mycroft didn't care, really, he was done caring. He was nineteen-years-old, free from the stuffy halls of university and finally out in the real world. He was buried under mountains of classified paperwork, his father's reputation and his own brilliance meaning his position was a good one._

_Sherlock found it all very fascinating. Mycroft just didn't care._


	3. First Meetings

**Chapter Three: First Meetings**

Mycroft lit a cigarette and blew smoke above his head. He was sitting on his very expensive couch, fidgeting and looking at the drugs. He kept looking away, kept telling himself he didn't need to take them.

But then his eyes would drift back and he'd groan.

Mycroft stood, hoping that walking, that maybe making coffee, would help him resist the urge to stick a needle in his arm. He turned on the expensive machine and stood smoking, keeping his back to the drugs.

The smell of coffee filled his nostrils and suddenly memories were ripping through his head. Mycroft groaned loudly and leaned against the counter, trying very hard to forget about the man that was addicted to coffee.

But it was impossible. Without the drugs, Mycroft's mind was running a million miles an hour. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn't forget about the one man that had made everything okay.

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><p><em>Mycroft's drug addiction was out of hand now. There he was, Mycroft Holmes, sitting in a club and sipping scotch. He'd heard about it from another politician, one who's own drug habit put Mycroft's to shame. He had boasted that the club was a good place to get young men and good drugs.<em>

_Mycroft needed the drugs, he'd run out three days ago. His arms were itching, his brain needing a hit just to shut up. Mycroft sipped his drink and looked around, wondering where he could get some cocaine._

_He spotted the man in the corner and stood, abandoning his drink in favour of cocaine. The man stiffened when Mycroft approached and the younger man didn't blame him; Mycroft was dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, everyone else wore jeans and skin-tight dresses._

'_Whatchya want?' the man asked over the thumping music._

'_Cocaine,' Mycroft said. The man tensed again and Mycroft held up his hands. 'I can tell you are a dealer from your hands, your jeans and your eyes. Now please, I want to buy some cocaine. Don't make me wait.'_

_The man looked him over again, no doubt wondering if Mycroft was a cop._

'_If I was a police officer would I really be dressed like this?' Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow._

_The man chuckled. 'Yeah, alright. Got cash?'_

'_Of course,' Mycroft said. Both looked around to make sure they weren't being watched as they exchanged money and drugs. Mycroft had a smile on his face as he went back to the bar and ordered another drink._

_He hated that he was reduced to this; to buying drugs in a seedy club just to satisfy his addiction. But with a pocket full of cocaine and a nice drink in his hand, Mycroft couldn't bring himself to care. He knew he'd end up overdosing and dying in his office or flat. No one would care, really. Sherlock might, Mummy definitely wouldn't. She was too busy sleeping with the new stable hand._

_Mycroft stood and removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair before resuming his drinking. He watched the party-goers with distant eyes, feeling like an outsider more than just another young person having a good time. Mycroft had never liked clubs, had never liked anything much._

_He decided to have a few more drinks before heading home and shooting up. It seemed like a nice way to spend the night and he didn't have work until the day after tomorrow. He could spend the entire time high._

_Suddenly there was a man falling beside him and reflexes honed by hundreds of hours of training made Mycroft turn. He grabbed the man's arms to avoid a very embarrassing situation and felt ice slide down his thighs._

_Trying very hard not to shove the man back and shout, Mycroft said politely, 'Excuse me, sir, could you not spill your drink over me?'_

'_Sorry,' the man grunted._

_Mycroft let the man go and said, 'Not to worry, it was just ice.' He turned back to the bar and had another mouthful of alcohol. It was a few seconds before he realised the young man hadn't moved. He was just standing there with his empty drink, staring at Mycroft. He turned slowly and said, 'Can I help you?'_

_The young man (_early twenties, police officer, partially gay... drug addict?_) cleared his throat and gave Mycroft a smile that made the politician's heart skip a beat._

'_Can I buy you a drink?'_

_Mycroft jumped, eyes going wide and lips parting. The man was... hitting on him? On _Mycroft_? Of course Mycroft had been hit on before, men and women alike loved his bright blue eyes and thin body, but he'd never had someone this... attractive, ask to buy him a drink._

_Mycroft forced those thoughts aside. He'd always worried that he liked men over women and it scared him to think that he was attracted to the other man. Mycroft knew there was nothing wrong with being gay but Mummy and Father had always frowned on it, Father physically and Mummy vocally. If they knew Mycroft liked men..._

'_You...' Mycroft finally managed, trying to ignore his thoughts, 'you want to buy me a drink?'_

'_Yeah,' the man said._

'_Erm,' Mycroft said, 'I'm flattered, but I'm really... I'm not gay.' It was a lie, it felt like a lie. Mycroft had only ever been with women but he'd never enjoyed sex, it had never turned him on like it seemed to other men. Mycroft couldn't tempt himself, he couldn't._

_But he also couldn't help looking the older man up and down, loving the tight jeans that hugged his arse and hips, the open shirt that gave Mycroft a nice view of a firm, hard chest. He licked his lips and hoped to God the guy didn't know he was looking._

'_It's just a drink,' the man said and slid onto the stool beside Mycroft. 'We'll see how the night goes.' He winked and Mycroft felt a blush tinge his cheeks so he looked away quickly. 'So, you want that drink?'_

_Well... one drink couldn't hurt, could it? It wasn't as though the man was asking him to bed. 'Erm... yes, okay.'_

_The man smiled, turning to catch the bartender's eye. 'I'm Greg,' he said and slid the bourbon across the bar._

'_Um...' Mycroft froze, staring at the man with wide eyes._

'_This is where you tell me your name.'_

_Mycroft blushed again and licked his lips. 'M-Myc,' he finally settled on. There was no need to tell this Greg his entire name and _Mycroft_ wasn't exactly normal. Mycroft couldn't have his superiors finding out that he was out all night at clubs._

'_Myc?'_

'_Yes,' Mycroft nodded again._

'_Nice to meet you, Myc,' Greg smiled and raised his glass._

_Mycroft took his and clinked their glasses together. 'You too... Greg.'_

_Greg smiled. And it was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever seen._


	4. Kisses And Fights

**Chapter Four: Kisses and Fights**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: This chapter is for <strong>_**DarkStarr7713, **_**who needs a little bit of fluff with her boys.**_

_**x**_

* * *

><p>Mycroft threw his mug across the kitchen, watching it shatter against the wall. His heart beat heavily and he dropped to sit, sucking back on his cigarette quickly.<p>

No, no, no, he couldn't think about Greg, not now. No, it had been... it had been weeks since he'd thought about Greg.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut against the hurt and pain and anger. Greg... his Greg... gone. Mycroft felt tears threaten to break free and a sob made his chest heave. Even after everything, even after all these years, Greg was still a very big part of his heart.

And Mycroft just couldn't forget him.

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft giggled again and slopped alcohol down his front. 'Oh, I quite like this shirt.' He wasn't drunk, of course, but he <em>was _having fun. He was having fun and he wasn't high! It was a first for Mycroft._

_He was thoroughly enjoying himself. And then there was Greg._

_The man, only three years older than Mycroft, was smart and funny and very, very attractive. As the night wore on Mycroft could no longer deny that he found Greg extremely sexy. The fact that he seemed to like Mycroft only heightened it._

'_Quite,' Greg snorted. 'What are you, fifty?'_

'_I am twenty, thank you very much,' Mycroft scowled._

'_Hey, I'm just saying.'_

'_I'm sick of people underestimating me because of my age,' Mycroft sighed._

'_Is that a big thing in your line of work?'_

_Mycroft nodded and downed half his drink. Nobody ever took Mycroft seriously. He was young and looked it; everybody thought he was an idiot, just a pretty face. Well, that was before he broke them down in five seconds with his deductions._

'_I work for the government,' he found himself telling Greg._

'_Ooh, are you a spy?'_

_Mycroft smirked. 'Greg, even if I was I couldn't tell you.'_

'_Do you have a licence to kill?'_

'_You'll have to use your imagination.' He did, in fact, have a licence to kill. But he couldn't tell that to some stranger in a club._

_Greg chuckled and sipped his drink. 'Well I take you very seriously.'_

'_Really?' Mycroft asked._

'_Mm... you look very serious in those trousers.'_

_Mycroft blushed, not the first time that night. Everything Greg said had the ability to make Mycroft's crotch warm and his skin tingle. But he couldn't give into these feelings and gulped._

'_Greg, I'm not gay.'_

'_Neither am I.'_

_He was, Mycroft could tell. Well, he was at least bisexual. 'Then why are you buying me drinks?' Mycroft asked with a frown. Surely Greg was buying him drinks in the hope it led to sex._

'_Can't one man buy another man a drink without it leading to sexual intercourse?'_

'_I suppose so,' Mycroft said slowly, his brain failing to work out just what was happening. Greg was clearly interested, Mycroft could tell... was he hoping to turn Mycroft?_

He wouldn't have to try very hard_, he thought before shaking his head._

_Greg smiled and bought Mycroft another drink, Mycroft smiling and sipping it._

_-oOo-_

_They were both close to being completely sloshed when an older man came over, all smiles and winking. Mycroft looked up at the new man as Greg scowled._

'_Hey there, gorgeous.'_

'_Hello,' Mycroft squeaked, looking down quickly. He didn't really know what to do. Why were so many men checking him out tonight?_

'_The name's Len. Can I buy you a drink?' the man asked._

'_No, no thank you, I have one,' Mycroft said and held up his half full glass. Greg grinned but Mycroft couldn't figure out why._

'_Come on, drop curly here and come be with a real man,' Len said._

_Mycroft felt his cheeks darken and he shifted uncomfortable on his stool. 'No, I'm quite alright.'_

'_Come on.'_

'_No,' Mycroft insisted, hoping he wouldn't have to get physical to get rid of the man. His superiors really hated it when he used his skills on drunken idiots._

_Len reached forward and grabbed Mycroft's chin, dragging his face up. 'Come on, cutie.'_

_Before Mycroft could retaliate, Greg was on his feet and pushing Len back. Mycroft stared with wide-eyes as Greg snarled, 'The man said no.'_

'_What are you, his boyfriend?' Len asked, looking to make sure he hadn't spilt his drink._

'_Yeah, I am,' Greg said and Mycroft jumped, turning to stare at Greg. He knew Greg was lying just to get rid of Len but... Mycroft had liked it, liked the sound of it. He blushed when he realised he didn't mind Greg calling him his boyfriend._

'_Come on, I just wanna touch his pretty mouth,' Len said._

'_The man said _no_,' Greg growled._

_Len shoved Greg back roughly and he bumped into Mycroft, who yelped and hit the bar. Suddenly Len had Mycroft around the arm and was dragging him up._

'_Let me go!' Mycroft shouted, trying to pull the man's fingers free. He was panicking, letting his fear cloud his head. He knew how to disable a man fifty different ways but his brain was going too fast, it wouldn't let him focus._

'_Come fuck a real man,' Len slurred._

_Suddenly Len was being pushed back and Mycroft looked up just in time to see Greg's fist connect with the drunk's face. Len fell into a group of girls, all of them squealing as alcohol went everywhere._

_Mycroft shuddered, rubbing his arm where Len had touched him._

'_Don't fucking touch him!' Greg snarled, Mycroft looking to see that the older man looked practically murderous._

'_You little fucker!' Len shouted, dropping his drink and advancing on Greg._

_Mycroft realised Len was going to hit Greg. No, he couldn't have that, he couldn't let the man lay even a single finge on Greg. Not Greg, no._

_Suddenly Mycroft was between them, his training once more kicking in. He twisted Len's arm back and tripped him, forcing the man to the floor. Mycroft pushed a foot into his back and turned his arm until he heard a crack._

'_Don't you dare hit him!' Mycroft hissed, fury radiating through his body. How dare this piece of shit even _think _about hitting Greg. Len whimpered and Mycroft twisted his hand around more. One more twist, just a few millimetres, and he'd snap the idiot's wrist..._

'_Myc, let him go,' Greg suddenly said, stepping forward._

'_No,' Mycroft snarled, 'he was going to hurt you.'_

_Greg rested a hand on the taller man's shoulder and felt Mycroft flinch. God was Greg's hand warm, and hard and... Mycroft felt heat pool in his gut._

'_Come on, let's get out of here.'_

_Greg's words finally made it to his brain and Mycroft nodded. No sooner had he let Len go then Greg was grabbing his hand, dragging him through the crowd and to the doors._

_They stumbled into the cold night and started running, putting as much distance between themselves and the club as they could. They made it a few streets before Greg tugged Mycroft into an alley and forced him against the wall._

_Mycroft grunted but made no attempt to move, not even when Greg forced his hands above his head. Adrenalin was pumping through his body, making everything fast and fun and crystal clear._

'_Why'd you do that?' Greg asked._

'_He was going to hit you,' Mycroft said. Surely that was obvious._

'_So? I can handle myself.'_

'_So can I,' Mycroft frowned._

'_Yeah, I saw that,' Greg said and licked his lips. Mycroft's eyes zeroed in on them and his face felt hotter. 'Who taught you how to do that?'_

'_The training comes with my job,' he said without thinking._

'_Spy?' Greg asked._

_Mycroft snorted. 'I already told you, Greg.'_

'_No, you avoided the subject.'_

'_Hmm, so that means I must be a spy.'_

_They shared a chuckle and eyed each other, both aware their bodies were pressed together. Suddenly Greg shifted and Mycroft felt something poke into his stomach. His eyes went wide as Greg blushed and dropped Mycroft's hands._

'_I'm sor–'_

_Mycroft couldn't stand it anymore; he _had _to kiss Greg. Suddenly his parents, his job, none of that mattered. He didn't care if his parents stopped talking to him because he liked men and he didn't care what anyone at work thought._

_Right then and there, kissing Greg was all that mattered._

_Mycroft pressed their lips together, his eyes closed, and herd Greg groan. Suddenly there was a tongue on his lips and Mycroft shuddered._

_Greg pulled back first, eyes wide and panting. Mycroft felt his own breath coming in short gasps, despite the kiss not being very long._

'_What?' he asked. Did Greg not want to kiss him? Had he misread the other man?_

'_I... I thought you weren't gay,' Greg said._

'_I thought you weren't either but your cock seems to say otherwise.' Mycroft didn't even know where the words came from. He didn't swear, not him._

_Well, he also didn't_ _make out with men in alleyways._

_But he was. And he wanted to do it again._

_Greg swallowed. 'You... you're fucking hot.'_

'_So are you,' Mycroft admitted._

'_You're attracted to me?' Greg asked._

'_Yes,' Mycroft nodded._

'_Right,' Greg said._

'_Erm... what do we do?' Mycroft asked. He was out of his element here, he'd never done this with another man. Even with women he'd never initiated it._

_Suddenly Greg pushed Mycroft back against the wall and kissed him. He groaned when Mycroft wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pulling Greg closer. The older man's lips were hot, his tongue wet as he licked his way into Mycroft's mouth. His hands threaded through Mycroft's hair and pulled, Mycroft moaning and thrusting his crotch forward._

_Mycroft heard Greg moan when his cock hit the older man's waist. Mycroft smiled, amazed that he could do that to another man._

_Greg pulled back suddenly and smiled, looking down at Mycroft's lips. Mycroft was panting, his eyes wide as he looked Greg over._

'_Are you sure about this?' Greg asked, voice husky with lust. 'I'll stop if you aren't... if you are, I'm never, ever stopping.'_

_Mycroft stared at him, not sure what to say. He couldn't deny that he wanted this; he wanted to feel Greg's lips on his own, and his naked skin too. He wanted to feel his cock and his arse and..._

_Who was Mycroft kidding? He'd never liked women, had never liked having sex with them. He liked men, he liked _Greg_. He liked Greg's slim hips and broad-shoulders and... he liked everything._

_Nothing else mattered; not his family or job, not even the drugs. In that moment he ceased being Mycroft Holmes, the bored politician, the brilliant genius._

_He was Myc; a guy who liked other men and who wanted Greg to kiss him again._

_He was a guy who actually had fun._

_So he swallowed carefully and said, 'Don't stop, please.'_

_Greg forced their lips back together, Myc moaning as Greg's tongue darted into his mouth. Though he loved it and never wanted to stop, Myc felt like he had to be honest with Greg._

'_I've never... had sex... with a man...' he managed to mumble, tilting his head and sucking back on Greg's tongue. God, how had he gone so long without tasting another man? It was wonderful and filled Myc with a kind of heat he'd never felt before._

'_Me either,' Greg admitted._

_Myc found that surprising but didn't care in the least. Greg seemed sure of himself and that was enough for him. 'I want you to fuck me,' he said, 'now, please.'_

_Greg smiled against his lips. 'Are you always so polite when asking for sex?'_

_God, would people ever get over the fact that he was polite? 'Fuck me now!' he hissed instead._

_Greg grinned and pulled back, grabbing Myc's wrist. His hand was warm and calloused and Myc felt his heart pumping painfully fast as he looked up at the other man._

'_Come on, my place is around the corner.'_

_Myc grinned as Greg tugged him from the alley and down the street, both their hearts jumping._


End file.
